Chapters (65)
- Cover
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- Part One
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Part Two
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Part Three
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- About the Publisher
“Hold on, hold on,” said Digger. “Wait here while I get the key.” He left the truck running but got out, and I turned up the heat. He opened the back door and rummaged around in the backseat.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting a flashlight,” he said. He marched back to look in the truck bed. Digger was in love with his F-150 and had been really pumped when he found a four-door with a hard-shell “truck cap,” to protect his stuff. He kept tons of junk back there, gas cans, tools, jugs of wiper fluid, an air compressor, boxes of nails and screws, firewood, a dirt shovel, bags of car towels, Turtle Wax, a wool blanket covered in wood chips and dust, Spackle, motor oil, gloves, cheesecloth, cans of Mountain Dew, shims, a piece of plywood, a couple of five-gallon buckets, and his ongoing pile of cardboard boxes.
On the drive, he’d told me about the Missouri job and the next one coming up in February, in Florida. He liked having time between jobs like this. He was okay with traveling for work, getting temporary housing. It didn’t sound fun to me.
“Got it.” Digger switched on the flashlight and closed the back hatch. He shined his flashlight at my feet. “Got my gloves?” he asked. I reached down and passed them to him. Digger hiked around the side of the cabin until he was out of range of the headlights. Soon he trudged back to his side of the truck. He hopped in and shut the door. “Dammit,” he said.
“What?”
“Can’t find the fucking key.”
“What?” I said, confused, upset.
“Yeah, I know.” Digger held his forehead, lifted off his DEKALB cap, and put it back on.
“Where is it supposed to be?”
Digger slammed the steering wheel. “There’s a goddamn peg it hangs on.”
“It wasn’t there?”
“No, it’s not there, Cally. That’s what I just said.”
“Where could it be?”
“It must have fell in the snow, and I couldn’t fuckin’ find it.”
“Oh my God!” I said, panic rising in my chest.
“Goddammit!” Digger slammed the steering wheel again, and the baby woke.
At this point, things could have gone two ways: I could have yelled at Digger, gotten angry because he was losing his temper, which probably would have gotten him angrier and made him do something stupid. Like the time he punched the wall and broke his hand. Or when he kicked his bike and broke the spokes.
Instead I decided to stay calm and ignore his bullshit tantrum. Something about having Nell there told me this was the better choice. “It’s okay,” I said. “It’ll be fine. We can sleep in the truck.”
“For fuck’s sake,” said Digger.